I set my notebook down somewhere between Free Beer for all the Hashers and the S & M Man. That’s right, “Jesus can’t go hashing . . . ‘til he cries his puppy tears.” Before “a man came in for some floor covering – some floor covering from the store! – some floor covering he wanted my carpet he got! Oh, I don’t work there anymore.”
There was a bye-bye side-side. There were Birthday side-sides.
There were accusations. Lots of accusations. Ménage à None had to drink. A lot. So did Hole Patrol. Racist behavior. When one Hole drinks, so Gopher Hole. Cause for Blindness drank for caring if her part was straight when she had already didn’t care if she took her shirt off at the Beer Near. (West Tavern, formerly known as Westies. No more karaoke, but still a great bar for Beer Checks.)
There were autohashers: Cockmaster and Commander (still claiming injury), Tits of Steel (don’t you hate it when real life interferes with hashing?) Um, more, I’m sure. And, an Auto Erotica, a visitor from Princeton (and Bimbos of Jersey and Summit) with her hubby Gopher Hole.
There were Cums Latelies: Grounghog Lay, Several of the too many Justs, Cryly (Rape Van Winkle) Cyrus.
There were virgins. Several virgins. Just Hot Chick, Just Hot Chick, Just Hot Dude. I promised to forget their names.
First and last in: Groundhog Lay (maybe or maybe Manual Fiesta?) and Cause for Being DFL almost all the time.
The hares drank for laying a shitty trail. Ménage à None and Hole Patrol.
It had been a shitty (therefore I kinda liked it) trail consisting of marks and clusterfucks that made a kind of cloverleaf south and west and north and east and ending about 10 blocks from The Green Room, where we all met on that fine evening one week ago.
Don’t hate me ‘Cause I’m old.